


Chained

by Aeolist



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Chains, Eyebrows, F/M, hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeolist/pseuds/Aeolist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night out on the planet Delphon, Rose and the Doctor wake up in an unusual predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chained

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Captivated](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/37849) by Nautibitz. 



>   
>  Inspiration comes from several sources - two prompts from Spookyknight - one for "sharing the tiny bed," and one for "defending her honor," which I've combined, but applied rather loosely. And, as will be very clear to anyone who has happened to have read it, this story was inspired in great part by the Spuffy fic, [Captivated](http://www.nautibitz.com/fic/captivated00.html), by the incomparable Nautibitz. Because that scenario was too hot not to use on the Doctor and Rose.  
>  
> 
>   
> Also, thanks to Rointheta for cheering me on. :)  
> Oh, and, this planet is canon for the Whoniverse. Which I find hilarious.
> 
>  
> 
>   
>   
> 
> 
> * * *

  
Laughing. She can’t stop laughing. She’s not sure how she managed this night, sitting around a table bathed in golden light from lamps mounted in the floor, in a bar the size of a football pitch, with the Doctor and a lovely blue-green Vadali couple, drinking hypervodka. After Krop Tor, when she demands a fun and carefree evening, she expects to be carted to a pristine yellow waterfall, or a spa resort in the Bahamas in the year 5,330. She does not expect a night of drinking with the Doctor.

-

“So - you want fun, Rose Tyler? Fun it is! We’ll have a night out - what do you say to that? Dinner? Drinks?”

“Are you asking me on a _date_ , Doctor?” she waggles her eyebrows at him.

“Oh, look at that! You’re a natural. I know just the place! You are going to _love it._ ”

He throws a lever and the Time Rotor lights up, jerking them just slightly.

“The planet Delphon!” the Doctor enthuses. “I haven’t been there in ages. Roundabout the year 7,900 they’ve got quite an intergalactic community going, not a bad bit of nightlife. Interesting planet! The natives communicate with their eyebrows.”

He smoothly arches his left eyebrow, then raises them both, transitioning seamlessly into an arch of the right. The effect is altogether similar to a crowd doing the wave. “Don’t even need the TARDIS translation circuit, not with these babies,” he grins, waggling his eyebrows some more. He quirks the right one up ironically. “Not that I ever do. Genius, me.”

“Is that right? Think you’re so special?” Rose asks, quirking a brow and grinning at him from the other side of the console.

“Cheeky!” he admonishes. “You’ll want to be careful who you aim _that_ little move at. I’d tell you what you just said but,” he hovers his hands over two sides of the Time Rotor as though they’re the TARDIS’ ears and affects an exaggerated whisper, “not in front of the TARDIS.”

“Shut up!” Rose laughs, walking over and nudging him with her shoulder.

“Never gonna happen!” he promises, waggling his eyebrows some more - probably some secret message - maybe someone can translate once they get to Delphon. “Now, grab that lever!”

-

“Er,” the Doctor starts, glancing down at the table and up again, looking just a little bit hazy. Suddenly, he lights up. “Yes! No! Wait, yes! Got it! Okay -- Clothing. One: I used to wear a jumper covered in question marks - you know, for mystique. Two: I used to wear a leather jacket that originally belonged to a vampire. Three: I used to wear a sprig of celery pinned to my lapel on a daily basis.”

“Third one!” Rose shouts, laughing, a little louder than intended. “Has to be! Goodness knows you’re a nutter, but no one pins celery to their lapel.”

“Stri? Manasa?” the Doctor prompts the couple, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey, no hints!” Rose scolds.

“They’re Vadali, Rose, not Delphoni!” the Doctor grins, taking a sip of his drink. Was it his fourth, or his fifth? He knows it’s only Rose’s second, and he’s made sure she’s drinking mixed drinks instead of pure hypervodka. Meanwhile, she’s been insistent that he keep pace ahead of her to make up for his superior tolerance, so he’s drinking it straight. He’s insistent that he’s 100% insusceptible and that drinking it straight will make no difference. In an unrelated matter, he’s feeling very warm. It’s rather nice.

“Doesn’t mean they don’t speak it!” Rose argues.

“That wasn’t a hint, that was just my very handsome face doing very handsome things,” the Doctor points out. Rose rolls her eyes with a smile, but doesn’t argue.

“Second one,” Manasa says.

“First one,” Stri attempts.

“Oooh,” the Doctor grins. “No one’s quite sure. Even split.”

He lets the moment build, still grinning at them, until Rose chucks a bit of napkin at his face.

“Out with it!” she demands.

“ _Fine,_ ” he sighs, much aggrieved. “Second one’s the lie.”

Rose groans, taking a swig of her drink. Stri laughs and does the same, sending a bereaved look to the exempt Manasa, who ultimately takes a small sip out of guilt, rolling his eyes.

“A vampire Rose? Really?” the Doctor asks, turning to face her with exaggerated flourish not at all to do with how much hypervodka he has consumed, insusceptible as he is.

“Well, I dunno! We met a werewolf!” Rose argues.

“Everyone knows vampires are great winged beasts--” he exaggerates the words, and she detects a little Scottish in it “--and they don’t wear any clothes.”

“So they’re real, then?” Her eyes widen at his nod. “Anyway - winged - how’m I supposed to know that?” Rose asks, South London accent becoming even stronger as her words slur just a little. “Could’a been a vampire! You wore the leather and all - and you were very ‘Angel’ sometimes-” she laughs. “It could’a come from him, for all I know!”

“Angel would never part with his leather jacket,” the Doctor corrects, sipping his drink again and leaning over to nudge into Rose with his shoulder. “Your turn!”

“Okay, just - let me think a minute.” Rose says, scooching her chair closer to him unconsciously.

“Rooose,” the Doctor whines. “You had the _whole round_ to think of yours!”

“Shhh,” Rose orders. “No interruptions from Drunk Doctors.”

“I’m not drunk! Time Lords are insusceptible,” the Doctor argues, reaching for his drink and severely undermining his argument by knocking it over onto the table. The clear liquid quickly makes its way toward the edge and drips onto his lap.

Rose bursts out laughing, moving her chair away from him again, as he mops at it ineffectually with the bit of napkin she threw at him moments before.

“You keep saying that, but Superior Time Lord Physiology’s no match for superior hypervodka alcohol content,” Rose jokes, grabbing a few napkins from a dispenser on their table and handing them to him with a grin. “S’why I’ve been pacing myself.”

“Do you happen to have superior fabric absorption, too, Doctor?” Stri asks, throwing an arm around Manasa with a grin made no less cheeky by his extra row of gleaming aquamarine teeth.

“Actually, yes,” the Doctor pouts, throwing wet napkin onto the table. Rose bursts into fresh gales of laughter, finally meeting the Doctor’s eyes. She expects embarrassment or impatience, but he’s wagging his eyebrows at her again, and it sets her off once more.

“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor admonishes, “It is your turn.”

“Okay,” Rose acquiesces, wiping her eyes. “Okay. One: when I was fifteen, I shoplifted a lipstick from a shop I ended up working at later - I paid the money into the register one day when I was 18 after I couldn’t stand the guilt anymore. Two: my first kiss was with two girls, simultaneously. Three: When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a secret agent.”

Stri and Manasa sit thinking for a moment, and Rose smiles smugly, taking a sip from her drink. The Doctor, meanwhile, evaluates her shrewdly, and she can’t help but grin at him, arching an eyebrow. He waggles his back at her. She sticks her tongue out, getting fed up.

“Guess already!”

“First one,” Manasa says confidently.

“Second!” Stri guesses.

“Oh, second one, definitely,” the Doctor agrees.

“First one’s right!” Rose grins, sipping on her drink again. “Manasa, you are _good_ at this game!”

Manasa shrugs, flashing his aqua smile. “Too much detail in that first story. Dead giveaway.”

Rose taps the side of her nose knowingly and nods.

The Doctor, meanwhile, stares at her. “Rose Tyler! I am .. scandalized!”

“I was _five_. We were playing ‘Prince Charming,’ but there were three of us, and we couldn’t decide who should be the prince and who should be the princess and who would be left out, so we compromised.” Rose explains, rolling her eyes.

“Scandalized.” the Doctor repeats.

“I’ll give you scandalized,” Rose baits. “That first story’s true, only I never put a single penny back into the Henrik’s register.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself! You’ll sully our good reputation as world savers,” the Doctor asserts with a perfect parody of affront.

“You’re one to talk - you blew the whole place up! All I did was steal a measly lipstick for five quid.”

“Too right, I did,” the Doctor agrees, without a hint of guilt in his voice, then whispers conspiratorially, “Was trying to impress a girl.”

Rose smiles at him, ordering, “Doctor - Stri - drink!”

Stri exchanges an amused look with Manasa and takes a sip of his drink.

The Doctor motions to his empty glass and the pile of wet napkins on the table, then shrugs.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Rose argues, and hands him hers. “You lost, now you drink.”

“You’d make a great secret agent,” the Doctor tells her.

“I know,” she says.

“The gymnastics would come in handy. Secret agents are always doing back handsprings,” he points out.

“No, that’s gymnasts you’re thinking of. Stop trying to distract me and drink.” She’s smiling at him, eyebrow arched again.

He takes the glass from her and, putting his mouth _right over_ her lipstick mark, he takes a long gulp, draining the glass.

“Look at that,” he says, holding up the empty glass. “Empty. I’d better get us some more, then.”

Things go a bit blurry after that.

-

She wakes up disoriented, with a headache, and it takes only a few seconds for alarm to kick in. She’s in a bed, only she doesn’t know how she got there. The last thing she remembers is drinks and laughter, eye(brow) flirting with the Doctor, and a couple with aquamarine smiles, and she’s not sure _what happened_ between then and now to lead her here.

Fuzzy, she realizes she’s not just in a bed. She’s naked in a bed. A thin sheet covers her from chest to toes, but there’s no mistaking the slight chill, the feel of sheets on bare skin.

Her arms are aching, too, and she realizes, she’s not just naked in a bed. She’s naked in a bed, chained, with cuffs around her wrists. The chains fasten around a long metal rod mounted on the wall. Could she have -- No. Chains. Not handcuffs. Far less “bondage fun” and far more “imprisoned.”

She jostles her arms, testing the strength of the cuffs, and looks around, evaluating the room. White walls that look like cement are all she can see from her vantage point on her back. Finally, she turns her head.

Not just chained and naked in a bed. Chained and naked in a bed, next to the Doctor. Now that she’s aware of him, she’s got no idea how she hadn’t noticed immediately. The bed is tiny, and there’s maybe an inch of space between them.

He’s just to her left, and he’s awake. Chained to the same long metal rod and naked, too, by the look of it. While she’s lying down on her back, he’s sitting up, arms elevated less severely due to his higher position.

“Oh,” she gasps.

“Hello,” he greets her, giving a little wave with his fingers up where his hand is chained.

“Hi.”

Unable to help herself, she looks, eyes trailing from his face down his naked torso. He’s thin, no surprise; but this position, particularly vulnerable, makes him look almost lanky. A dusting of hair covers his chest, matching the finer brown hairs along his forearms. His ribs stick out a bit, but it just draws her attention to lean abdomen not fully covered by the sheet, and the line of hair that disappears beyond her view. Rapidly becoming aware of her behavior, she forces herself to meet his eyes. He’s staring right at her, face intense, without a hint of a smirk about how she’d just checked him out. She swallows.

“What’s happened to us?” Rose asks, averting her eyes to stop herself doing it again.

“Can’t be sure,” the Doctor explains. “Definitely prison. Not sure why - either we’ve violated some Delphon law, or someone’s trying to get us out of the way while they do something terrible and likely world-ending. Either way, we’re in danger.”

“You mean you don’t remember how we got here?”

“Er, well. No, not as such.”

“Were we drugged? Could it be Stri and Manasa?”

“That’s a really great question, thought of it myself, in fact.” He pauses, sheepish, then admits, “No. I can tell what chemicals I’ve metabolised recently.” He smacks his lips thoughtfully, far too casual. “Just hypervodka.”

She gets the distinct feeling that he’d be rubbing the back of his neck if he could reach it and she mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like, ‘insusceptible, my arse.’

“Language, Rose,” he chides.

“Oh, shut it,” Rose counters. “What do we do? My head is killing me and I don’t fancy waiting around to see who did this to us. We need to get out of here.”

She cranes her neck, then tries to budge up on the bed just a bit to see the rest of the room. The sheet falls an inch or two and she gasps. It’s covering the tops of her breasts, but just barely.

She stops, sinking back into the hard mattress, trying to re-cover the skin she’s just bared. Looking up again at the Doctor, she asks, “Exits?”

He clears his throat, eyes darting away from her. “Right. Um. Well, right there, actually.” He jerks his head, motioning just behind him and to the left, to the wall she can’t see.

“Oh,” she sighs. “Okay. One exit, but it’s visible. That’s good. We’re chained up. We.. we need to get out of the chains.”

“I don’t have my sonic on me just now,” the Doctor points out sarcastically.

“Well, you’re no Jack,” Rose agrees.

“Oi! Pretty sure we’d be out of luck even if I were hiding it… somewhere.” He twiddles his fingers at her again. “Can’t do a whole lot of reaching around just now.”

“So we pull,” Rose suggests. “Together. That bar’s pretty thin,” She nods her head upwards. “If we can just… rip it out of the wall, we can slide the manacles off.”

“I don’t know…” the Doctor says, eyes flashing between the sheet and her face.

“What choice do we have?” Rose asks. “We can’t wait here to see just who wants to murder us or end the world. Once we’re out of these, I’m sure you can find a way to get that door open.”

“Well, of course,” he acknowledges. “Brilliant, me. It’s just..” He looks at the sheet again, then raises his eyebrows.

Her head is pounding, and she’d rather not wait to see if she’ll sick up all over herself while chained to this bed. Yes, his torso is terribly distracting, but.. staying here and letting her hangover get worse is _not_ going to make things any better, even if they could do that without being murdered.

“It’s fine,” she asserts. “Come on, now pull, on three -- one.. two… THREE---”

They pull. The Doctor is silent, but, despite herself, Rose lets out a grunt of effort. The bar holds and they stop.

“Come on!” Rose urges. “Again!”

“Rose,” the Doctor interrupts. “Stop.”

Rose strains, arching her back, and the sheet drops a little more. The tops of her breasts are showing, now, with just a hint of areola on the right where the sheet’s dipped a bit lower. Suddenly chastened, she stops too.

“You should save your strength,” the Doctor tells her. “This isn’t going to work, not like this.”

She looks over at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and he looks back at her, eyes darting down just for a second and then away from her altogether. He lets out a deep sigh, shifts a little bit on the bed. His right hip bumps against her left, and she realizes he could easily bump her lower body out of the small bed. She jangles the chains again, frustrated.

“C’mon, Doctor,” she chastises. “You can’t give up that easily. There’s probably people out there who need our help!”

“I know,” he says, quiet.

“Or - or - Delphon police, coming here to execute us!”

“One or the other, yes. Could be both.” he acknowledges.

“So?” Rose asks, “What do we do?”

“We’re stressing the bar across too much surface area,” the Doctor tells her. “It’s not going to work like that. We need to apply pressure to a narrow space along the bar. I was-- I was trying myself, when you were still asleep, but I couldn’t get it on my own---”

He sounds stressed and she turns her head to look at him. He avoids her eyes, staring straight ahead.

“Doctor? What is it?”

“We need to be.. closer.” He swallows audibly, letting his eyes fall shut.

“So, shift, then,” Rose tells him, scooting over until they’re flush from ankle to hip.

“Rose,” the Doctor says, voice strangled.

“I know, but we have to,” Rose replies, looking from his closed eyes to his navel and back again. She makes a good play at sounding casual around the way her voice wants to catch. “C’mon, s’not so bad.”

“This,” he opens his eyes and looks into hers, nodding between them, “isn’t close enough. I’d need to --” He jerks his head to the right in a motion designed to look like flipping over.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“O-Okay,” Rose says, a little breathless. “That’s okay. That’s fine. Just - don’t crush me. You’re heavier than you look, trust me.”

He lets out a mirthless laugh, sitting up more fully and sliding the manacles along the bar, closer to Rose. Shifting carefully, he turns over, managing to capture the sheet between them, mostly, apart from where his right leg lays flush against her left hip from knee to inner thigh. He rests his weight on his knees, her hips in between them, balancing carefully, arms secured just to the left of her own. As they are, his arms prevent his face from hovering directly over hers, but being just to the left means that his breath is hitting her ear. She shivers.

He looks down at her, her chest rising and falling rapidly even though they’re not pulling just yet. He swallows, eyes darting between her torso and her face, pupils large. Curious, she looks down at herself. The sheet’s shifted - her right breast is uncovered down past her nipple, which is hard. His eyes move rapidly down to her chest, and up to her face, twice more.

“Sorry,” he chokes out.

“No, it’s - it’s fine. It’s hard not to look, I understand. Nothing personal.”

She shifts her hips a little, trying to get an idea for the leverage she’ll have, inadvertently rubbing her left hip against the inside of his right leg.

“Stop,” he tells her.

“Sorry,” she says. “Pull?”

“Yes,” he says, voice quiet. “On three. One.. two.. three!”

They pull. With effort, Rose stays silent this time, being sure to leave her hips squarely on the mattress even as she can’t help but arch her back. Her chest brushes his, that mischievous right breast scraping - just barely - against the left side of his chest. His chest hairs tickle her skin and she fights not to react, staying silent apart from her rapid breaths. The bar doesn’t budge. After a moment, they rest. She lays flat on the bed again and he holds himself over her, being very sure not to touch her apart from where his leg rests against her hip.

“Again,” he orders, not looking at her.

“Okay,” she agrees.

He doesn’t count down, this time - just starts pulling. She does, too - this time as hard as she can - and her hips and back rise as she puts her whole body into it. She lets out a grunt.

She’s pinned beneath him, really, with his knees on either side of her hips and the sheet obscuring their lower bodies from one another. Her breast is pressed against him, again, and he’s panting in her ear, and she can’t pretend this isn’t affecting her - not with her nipple hard and out and her breath coming so quickly. She knows - she can tell - it’s obvious, even, that this affecting him in some way.. His quiet intensity is far from his normal attitude with her. But she’s surprised, honestly surprised, when she lifts her hips and comes into contact with _him._

“Oh,” she gasps.

She feels the length of him, hard, nudging her from her pelvic bone to her lower abdomen. She knows she should drop down again, but she’s not fully in control of herself - not with his breath in her ear and their bare chests rubbing against each other and now _this._

She turns her head, and he’s looking at her, too, eyes dark and piercing. They’re both panting, and she moves her hips up, just a little, just to make them both gasp. She feels his sheet-clad erection slide against her center, and she moans, and they got here _how?_

“Rose,” the Doctor cries, and he looks helpless, a little desperate. She can tell he’s going to apologize, she sees his urge to run that he can’t follow, not chained and above her as he is.

“Shh,” she says, and forces herself to lower her body back onto the mattress. She’s never wanted anyone so badly in her life - both generally and right now - but, more than that, he’s the Doctor, and she doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

He’s trembling from the effort of holding himself above her. His knees are holding most of his weight, but his arms and abdomen are carrying the burden, as well. Little tremors move through him, from arm to hip.

He looks so close to out of control, and she wants to comfort him - wants to break his resolve. She’s not sure which urge will win out.

Rose lifts her head, rubs her cheek against his, gently, shushing him again. She can’t hug him, can’t hold his hand, but maybe this will do.

“Rose,” he repeats, softly. He dips his head down and rests it in the crook of her neck, still shaking just slightly from the effort of keeping his body hovering above hers. She moves her arms to the right, giving them more space for their faces to rest without arms in their way.

Then, she feels a soft kiss against her neck. It triggers a throb between her legs and her control snaps.

She curls her left leg under his right, looping her foot around his ankle, and pulls. Slipping, he drops onto her, the full length of his body pressed against hers, his erection resting against her abdomen.

She gasps, and he does too, his head still buried in her neck. She feels her pulse, through her wrists and between her legs, and she cries out.

She uses her foot and ankle to pull his leg in between hers, forcing him to shift onto his right side as he settles his left leg between her thighs. His right leg is bare against her hip, still touching her, and he shifts that one on his own, breathing heavily against her neck. Shifting causes the sheet to tangle, and she kicks at it, grabbing it with her toes, pulling it down, until it’s out of their way. She plants her feet on either side of the tiny mattress.

Finally settling fully between her thighs, he leans his weight on her again, and they come into contact skin to skin. She lets out a high keening noise, and he kisses her neck again, still hiding his face.

She moves her hips, scooting her body down just slightly, and suddenly - he’s there. His erection slides up her thigh with no friction whatsoever and she realizes she’s wet - really wet. The pulsing between her legs is almost unbearable - she needs friction. She shifts her hips again, and feels him resting at her entrance. She moans.

“Rose,” the Doctor says in her ear, pushing his hips forward until her outer folds open, just barely, against him. “Tell me to stop.”

She keens again, dipping her hips down further, and he slides past her outer lips, just breaching her entrance. Unable to speak, she turns her head toward where his is buried in her shoulder and nuzzles his head, panting.

“Tell me,” he says again. “Tell me to stop.”

“No,” she pants in his ear. She kisses his cheek, breathing heavily, waiting. She doesn’t want to be the one to do it - she needs it to be his decision. She’s made her choice clear.

He moans, low and long, and - giving in - slides all the way inside.

She cries out, wrapping her legs around him, and thrusting her hips forward. He pulls out, almost all the way, and she delights in using her leverage to meet him halfway as he thrusts back in.

Finally, he lifts his head from her neck, his hips pistoning slow and deep. His eyes are dark, a little lost - almost shimmering. His eyes flash down to her mouth, and meet hers again. Then, he lowers his mouth to hers, kissing her gently.

She kisses him back, all sweet - lips touching lips - no tongue, not yet. She wants to wrap her arms around him, wants her fingers in his hair, wants to grab his bum and fuck him from below. But her arms are bound, so she cranes her neck upward, deepening the kiss, and uses her foot to caress his calf, up and down.

He slows his movements inside her until he’s hardly moving at all, and breaks away from the kiss. She’s nervous, only for a second, until she sees his face. Awe. That’s the only way to describe it. Awe.

“Rose,” he whispers, resting his forehead on hers. She thinks there’s more he can’t say.

“I know, me too,” she says, and raises her chin to kiss him again.

He responds immediately, that tender moment giving way to immediate need. She plunges her tongue into his mouth and he reciprocates, starting up the heavy, measured pistoning from his hips again.

She can’t see him, couldn’t judge up close, but she feels so full, and his strokes are so long, and she can’t stop herself moaning into his mouth.

He’s moaning, too, until he breaks away and says, “I want to touch you so badly.”

She kisses him once, twice, and pants, “Me too.”

He brings his head down to her neck again, kissing and sucking on her throat as he speeds up his thrusts. She cries out, wrapping her legs around him again so she can rub herself against his pelvic bone.

Noticing the change, he shifts his movements seamlessly, grinding his hips against hers. She’s meeting him thrust for thrust now, moaning his name, and he’s panting in her ear again, cool breath tickling the shell of her ear.

The low throbbing between her legs grows sharper, and she’s moaning continuously as she raises her hips up to his over and over, grinding against him. He breaks away from her neck, leaning more weight on his arms again as he watches her, studying her face.

“Come on,” he says, low and urgent. “Rose, come on.”

She meets his eyes and lets out a long gasp. Every grind of his hips is pushing her up to that precipice, and she has no idea how he’s doing that with his hips while he keeps his strokes so deep.

“Please,” he begs, “I want to see it. Please.”

He shifts his hips almost imperceptibly, hitting her at just the right angle. Her nipples rub against his chest, so sensitive it’s almost uncomfortable, only it’s not - it’s perfect. She brings both legs around his lower back, bucking up against him. Meeting his eyes, she comes hard, gasping his name, clenching him with inner muscles and wantonly rubbing herself against his pubic bone.

He kisses her again, deeply, and moans into her mouth, toppling over the edge with her. Gasping, he keeps kissing her, slowing his thrusts until he’s going slow and shallow. Finally, he stops, resting his forehead against her chest, kissing it, not quite able to reach her nipples.

They’re quiet for several moments, and she feels him soften inside her. His head is still against her, and he kisses her skin lightly every so often.

She’s starting to get nervous, just a little, just because he hasn’t met her eyes yet, when he says, “I really want to hug you right now.” He gives his voice a casual quirk, like describing an interesting scientific phenomenon. “It’s almost unbearable.”

She turns her head and kisses his bicep, squeezes him with her legs. “Me too. This’ll have to do.”

“I never meant --”

“Please don’t,” Rose whispers. “Don’t tell me you regret this.”

He raises his head to meet her eyes.

“No. Of course I don’t regret -- I just never meant our first time to be - like this. Hungover. Imprisoned. Unable to have a cuddle afterwards. I had plans, I’ll have you know.” Suddenly looking concerned, he adds, “Why, do you?”

“Don’t be daft,” she says, leaning forward and stealing a kiss. “What did I just say?”

He smiles at her, and she smiles back at him, and soon they’re just grinning at each other for several long seconds until she lifts her head up and kisses him again.

“Good, then,” she says.

“Good,” he agrees.

The door next to the bed opens with a clang, and a guard - about seven feet tall, humanoid, orange, and with the largest eyebrows Rose has ever seen - enters the room, throwing their clothes on top of them.

“You, let us out of here!” the Doctor says, shifting just slightly to be sure Rose is fully covered, apparently unashamed of his uncovered bum.

The guard responds with rapid eyebrow movements. The TARDIS doesn’t translate them, but judging by the Doctor’s face, the guard has said something offensive. The Doctor - who is quite expressive with his eyebrows even normally, raises and lowers them rapidly, his face stern.

“What is it?” Rose asks.

“He’s said -- well, implied really -- well, it’s not important. Just know I’m defending your honour. Told him that you don’t sign Delphon and have no idea what that particular eyebrow quirk meant.”

The guard approaches them, key in hand, and uncuffs them both, eyebrows wagging rapidly. Then, he exits, leaving the door open behind him.

The Doctor just manages not to collapse onto Rose, catching himself on his arms, and using the leverage to slowly withdraw from her, rolling over onto his back. Waiting until he’s settled, Rose brings her own arms down, rubbing her wrists.

“Let me see,” the Doctor says, and, sitting up, takes her wrists in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over them. Satisfied, he releases her. “No chafing.”

She sits up, leaning towards him and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a proper kiss. Leaning against her, he wraps his arms around her waist, and returns it tenderly. Breaking away after a moment, he cups her cheek with a smile.

“We should go,” he says, and hands her her clothes.

“So, no danger, then? No end of the world? No imminent execution?” Rose asks.

“Nope!” the Doctor responds, standing up unabashedly and tugging on his trousers - apparently, he hadn’t bothered with pants.

Pausing to enjoy the view, Rose asks, “So what were we doing here, then?”

Pulling on his Oxford, he flashes a grin at her. “Just the drunk tank. Apparently _someone_ was very inebriated last night and wouldn’t stop wagging her eyebrows at everyone with absolutely no idea what she was saying.”

She raises her eyebrow in a pretty good demonstration of his point.

“Me! You were the one wiggling yours at me all night - you were probably saying all sorts of filthy things. They’d hardly chain you up in here with me if you hadn’t been causing trouble too.”

“I’d never resort to impropriety on Delphon! Trouble? What do you take me for,” he says with a wink.

“Why were we chained and naked, then?” Rose asks, pulling on her t-shirt.

“Standard protocol on Delphon. Strict constraint policy here, and all of our belongings were confiscated until our sentence was up.”

“Hm,” Rose muses, “So, basically, you and I got too wild, offended the general populace with our risque facial expressions, and ended up in the drunk tank all night? That’s it?”

The Doctor nods, pulling on his suit jacket and overcoat. He shoves his tie in his pocket.

Rose stands, enjoying the darkening expression on the Doctor’s face as she tugs on her panties and jeans. Throwing her jacket on over her shirt, she’s finally dressed, and approaches him, straightening his lapels.

“I’d say that qualifies as a fun and carefree evening.” She smiles at him, tongue between her teeth.

He grins back at her, taking her hand from his lapel and twining their fingers.

“Come on, Rose Tyler. I said I had plans for you, and I meant it.”

“Oh yeah?” Rose says, meeting his eyes and wagging her eyebrows suggestively.

“Save it for the TARDIS,” he laughs, practically dragging her out of the cell.

* * *


End file.
